


The Neophyte Job

by syntheseas



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: AU - Professional Criminals, Leverage AU - Fusion, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:02:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21867202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syntheseas/pseuds/syntheseas
Summary: Leverage Consulting's newest member, Eddie Kaspbrak, is having something of a breakdown on the job.Luckily, his esteemed colleague, professional con man Richie Tozier, is there to talk him through it.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 11
Kudos: 67





	The Neophyte Job

Okay. It’s not that Richie doesn’t like Eddie, because he does. He likes Eddie a little too much, if he’s being honest. Everyone likes Eddie. Eddie’s smart, and funny, and he doesn’t take their shit, and whenever any of them start to toe a little too close to the _professional criminal_ half of their vigilante justice whatever, Eddie’s there to squint at them and make a judgy face.

It’s good! Eddie’s good. They have a good system.

But Eddie being in the field is not part of that system.

The mark tonight is some corporate medical scumbag, a dude who buried a lawsuit about the side effects of an untested drug so he could leapfrog the ladder to promotion. So far, so normal – he’s the worst, like all their marks, and he likes hot ladies a little too much, but it’s par for the course.

They honestly don’t need four people on the ground for this. Bill and Mike are back at mission control, and Stan’s breaking into the guy’s office to find incriminating documents, but here, at the office party thrown to celebrate the drug acquisition, the floor’s feeling a little crowded. Ben’s dressed as a waiter, hanging back just in case they need backup. Bev and Richie are center stage, dazzling douchebags as the drunk slimeball and his bored, easily-stolen gorgeous date. And Eddie is working the room, picking up bits and pieces, just grabbing information where he can. By himself. A civilian.

Richie doesn’t love it, if he’s being honest.

“Charlie,” Bev says, smiling at him like she wants nothing more than to wring his neck. “What do you think?”

“Uh,” Richie says. “I wasn’t listening.” It’s true, and he offers up his smarmiest grin to sell it. The mark, Seth something-or-other, presses his lips together.

“You’re a lucky man,” he says, looking Bev up and down. “Most guys would kill to have a woman like that on their arm.”

Ben lets out a tiny, disapproving cough. It’s just loud enough to hear on comms.

Richie just grins wider. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t really looking to have her on my _arm_ , if you know what I’m saying.”

“Beep beep,” Ben mutters.

“We were talking,” Bev cuts in, “about the new acquisition. And the risks that can come along with new patents. I know some companies have gotten into an awful lot of trouble from lawsuits about that kind of thing.”

Seth smiles, sipping his champagne glass. “We’re not too worried about lawsuits. There’s been a little trouble, but everything’s been caught in testing, no liabilities. Hardingwest Pharmaceuticals takes safety _very_ seriously.”

Across the room, Eddie’s head snaps up. “Betty,” he hisses into his comm. It’s all he really has to say.

Betty’s the client – well, the daughter of the client. Fourteen years old, and sick. Some disease that had had Eddie sucking on his teeth in sympathy. The drug to treat had come onto the market, she’d started taking it, and three weeks later she’d been in the hospital, with kidneys too damaged to do their job. The acquisition had been happening around the same time, and when Betty’s family had pressed charges, Seth MacFuckface had buried them in red tape while making approximately a bajillion dollars in bonuses.

They’d visited her in the hospital, when her parents had refused to leave her side. She’d been small, fragile-looking with all those tubes in her, and Bill and Eddie had both left the room as quickly as they could. Bad memories surrounding Georgie, Richie figures.

“Mm-hmm,” Richie says, more for Eddie’s benefit than the mark’s. He takes a gulp of his drink. “Sounds real impressive. What’s it do again? Some sort of ED thing? ‘Cause you seem like the kind of guy who might need a little help every now and—”

“Charlie.” Bev puts a hand on his arm and squeezes tight. “You’re drunk. Take a walk.”

That means it’s her moment to step in, lay the charm on this guy until he’s eating out of her hand. He already thinks she’s on his side, now that Richie’s managed to look like the biggest tool on Earth. It’s good. Bev can handle this prick.

Richie nods at her, pats her on the hip and stumbles away so she can scoff at his retreat. The second Seth’s eyes are off him, and it’s honestly pretty fast, Richie’s off, winding his way around until he can innocuously stand by Eddie at the table where they keep the tiny sandwiches.

“So this guy, huh?” he says.

Eddie’s staring into the distance. His expression is murderous. “This guy.”

“How are you feeling?” Richie asks. He is, to be honest, a little buzzed. Not enough to impact the job, but part of his act has been swilling booze until Bev can pass him off as an alcoholic douche. Which isn’t that big a step, to be fair.

“Hm?” Eddie says, eyes on Bev and the mark across the room.

“Working the floor,” Richie says, nudging him with a shoulder.

“Oh,” Eddie says absently. He sways slightly at Richie’s touch, then steadies. “It’s fine.”

Wow. That’s a red flag if Richie’s ever seen one. “So you are… let me guess. You’ve been made.”

“Mm.”

“You got a taped confession that’ll put our guy away forever.”

“Huh.”

“You got one of the security guards to blow you in the stairway.”

“Can you not do this right now, Richie?” Eddie snaps. He’s rigid, eyes locked on Bev—no, not Bev, just the mark—and this close, Richie can see sweat starting to bead along his hairline. His breath is coming in shallow, and if Richie listens closely, he can hear quiet wheezing.

Oh, _shit._

“Uh, waiter?” Richie calls, waving a hand. In a moment, Ben’s stepped up – thank fucking God for Ben – and Richie’s handing him both their glasses, keeping a careful hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “This guy needs some air, we’ll be back in a moment.”

Ben nods, accepts the reshaping of the plan. Of course he does. Ben can handle anything, probably. He’ll keep track of Bev, back her up in a pinch and make sure _Seth_ doesn’t get too creepy with it. Richie can handle Eddie. It means they’re down a grifter on the floor, but Bev’s the best of the best and Eddie looks like he might pass out.

“Careful,” Ben murmurs. “Need me to check in with Bill?”

Richie nods, but Eddie shakes his head. “ ‘m fine, don’t tell—leave Bill out of this.”

“Eds,” Richie says, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t call me that, I’m not a little kid,” Eddie says. “I just—shit, I need my inhaler, I’ll be fine.”

“Your _inhaler?_ ” Richie’s hand closes a little tighter, and he pulls Eddie towards the door. He’s never heard shit about an inhaler. Since when does Eddie have asthma? “Come on, dude, Bev can handle herself, we’re just gonna take a walk. Two minutes. Come on.”

Bit by bit he manages to tug Eddie away from the party, into the stairwell, with a wink to the security guards that suggests they’re about to sneak away to get handsy. It’s—it’s a little nerve-wracking, on a personal level, but it’s fine. Neither of them has a long-term reputation to preserve at this place, and Richie’s supposed to be playing a bad date anyway.

“Okay, man, sit down,” Richie says, pushing Eddie down onto the stairs. “Where’s your—seriously, you never told me you needed an inhaler. Where is it?”

“I don’t _need_ it,” Eddie hisses, in complete contradiction to himself literally two minutes ago. He sets his jaw in a ridiculous expression, halfway between a scowl and a pout. The grim electric light of the staircase does nothing for him, just makes his grey pasty face look even paler. It says a lot of things about Richie’s taste, none of them flattering, that Richie’s never wanted to kiss him more.

“Okay, well, you said you did,” Richie says in lieu of anything about kissing. “So which is it?”

Eddie frowns deeper, until he looks like a particularly angry Muppet, and Richie commits this moment to memory. There’s nothing special about it, unlike some other moments he has saved – Eddie taking his shirt off for a quick-change in an elevator comes to mind – but there’s a rush of fondness nonetheless for this absurd civilian, who saw people getting hurt and wanted justice. The honest man, even moreso than Bill and his half-cocked vengeance quest, who had seen a gang of criminals and thieves trying to indict a CEO for embezzlement, rolled up his sleeves, and asked _How can I help?_

Finally, Eddie hangs his head and digs around in one of the inside pockets of his suit jacket. “It’s not—the asthma’s not real,” he says, even as he pulls out his inhaler and takes a puff. “It’s psychosomatic. That’s what the pulmonologist said.”

“And they let you keep the vape?” Richie says, just so he can watch Eddie pull another face.

In the background, Bev is murmuring something to the mark. Stan lets out a hiss of triumph in some office building halfway across the city, as he spins a dial and a safe clicks open.

“Richie, Eddie?” Bill says over comms. “Check in.”

Eddie’s head tilts up, like he’s forgotten everything they’re saying is being broadcast to five other people. Richie has no idea what that feels like. He’s a performer, always has been, which means he’s keenly aware of how other people perceive him. Like a car accident, mostly – can’t look away, and that’s just how he wants it. If they’re looking at the spectacle, they’re not seeing the show.

“All good here, Big Bill,” Richie says easily, winking at Eddie. “Overdid it a little on the whiskey, Eds is helping me get my sea legs back.”

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie mutters, but he looks grateful nonetheless. Ben knows they’re lying, but he’s also helping Bev right now, so he has better things to do than double-check their sitrep.

“Be careful, Richie,” Mike says.

“You got it, chief.” Richie pats Eddie’s shoulder once, then says, “Hey, we might go off comms for a minute, don’t freak out. No one wants to listen to me barf my guts out, right?”

“And you call yourself a professional,” Stan hums, with that absent tone that says he’s really focusing on whatever problem’s in front of him. Maybe it’s a vault door. Maybe it’s a thirty-story skyscraper drop. Stan will take care of it, no matter what. He always does.

“Three minutes, okay?” Bill says. Richie can picture the little twist of his frown. “We don’t want to leave Ben and Bev on their own for too long.”

“The B team can take care of themselves, but sure, whatever you say,” Richie says. He pulls his earpiece out and puts it in his pocket before anyone can reply.

Eddie stares at him for a minute, then does the same. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“We’ll be fine,” Richie says in his most soothing Voice. Eddie doesn’t look comforted. Then, because he wasn’t kidding about the booze doing things to his head, Richie reaches out and takes Eddie by the chin, tilting his head up and running a thumb along his jaw. “Hey, come on. What’s eating you?” Because Richie’s a good friend, he doesn’t make the obvious joke.

Eddie watches him for a long moment, gaze like a hawk.

“… ‘cause your mom’s eating me, fine, dammit,” Richie says, and Eddie rolls his eyes.

“I knew you couldn’t hold out forever,” Eddie says. There’s a dimple on his cheek from his smile.

“Yeah, well, I don’t distract that easy.” Richie swings himself down to sit on the stair below Eddie. This way they’re almost at equal eyelines, though Eddie’s an inch or two above him – eyelines, power dynamics, all that grifter shit that Bev could actually explain. Richie just knows people, and he knows Eddie can look down at him and feel a little safer being tall for once. “What’s going on? Are you sick?”

“Obviously I’m not sick, that’s ridiculous.” Eddie puts his hand to his forehead anyway. “Why, do I look like I have a fever?”

“You literally started having an asthma attack, dumbass, you tell me—”

“It’s not an asthma attack, it’s an anxiety attack—”

“Oh, good, just an anxiety attack, that’s so much better, I feel really reassured—”

“You are so fucking annoying—”

“Just tell me the problem, okay?!”

“I don’t like hospitals,” Eddie snaps. “That’s it, okay? We went to see Betty Ripsom’s family, I can’t stop picturing it, I just, I’m kind of freaking out. It’s not a big deal.” He takes another drag of his inhaler. “I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, you look super fine,” Richie snorts. “Can you even walk right now?”

Eddie glares down at him. The intimidation factor is kind of undercut by the fact that he’s still kind of glassy-eyed, though that’s concerning for other reasons. “Obviously I can walk.”

Richie’s not about to challenge him on that. Eddie gets stupid competitive when he thinks the team thinks he can’t keep up; he’s seen Eddie jump off of skyscrapers because Stan told him he didn’t have to. He’d rather faceplant down the stairs than admit to Richie he’s feeling a little unsteady. Instead he switches gears. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

To Richie’s surprise, Eddie bites his lip. “Uh. Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Richie says, trying for sympathetic and hopefully halfway approximating it. He’s kind of drunk, sue him.

“Spent a lot of time in hospitals as a kid,” Eddie mumbles into his shirt collar. “Not a great place to grow up.”

… aw, fuck. That kind of makes Richie’s heart hurt. “What, did you have like, cancer?” Never let it be said that Richie’s brain can keep up with his mouth, though.

“No,” Eddie says shortly. “I didn’t have anything.”

“… did you break a bone?” Richie asks. Bev would know the etiquette for this situation. Usually people love sharing their freaky medical stories, seeing if they can get a reaction. Guessing games aren’t what Richie’s used to.

“No—well, yes, I fractured my radius and my ulna when I was thirteen, but no,” Eddie says. “Just, uh, some stuff with my mom. She worried a lot.”

“Hospital levels of worry?” Richie says, and this is definitely a step in the wrong direction, but Eddie keeps his shit locked down so much. Richie’s finally getting to peel back the mask.

Eddie grimaces, takes another puff on his inhaler. “Munchausen’s by proxy,” he says. “Dad died when I was little, which actually was cancer – thanks for that, by the way—”

Richie winces.

“And after that…” Eddie shrugs. “Mom got scared. Kept me close. So yeah.” He closes his eyes. “Don’t like hospitals. Don’t like kids in hospitals. Let’s all laugh at the crazy hypochondriac, huh?”

“No one’s laughing.”

Eddie shoots him a look.

“Not about this, Eds, for real. I mean, I can if you want, some people like laughing through the pain or whatever, but I’m not gonna—I’m not that much of a dickhole, okay?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says finally. “Yeah, I guess you’re not.”

“Good.” Richie reaches out to pat Eddie roughly on the cheek. “First day on the job—”

“That’s so not true—”

“First day out and you’re already killing it,” Richie says a little louder, so Eddie will actually listen. “You got this, man. Even with the hospital thing, okay?”

“Thanks, Richie,” Eddie says. His jaw twitches in what might be a smile. Richie likes to think so, anyway. “We can, uh. We can go back in now.”

“We probably have a minute or two still,” Richie says, nudging him. “No rush.”

Eddie smiles, a real smile that reaches his eyes, and takes another deep breath. His knee knocks Richie’s thigh, sprawled out down the stairs, and Richie privately thinks that if Eddie wanted it, they could take a lot more than a minute or two. The job’s important, he knows it is, but the others are more than competent, and Richie just wants to stay in this instant for as long as he can.

It’s kind of selfish, stealing a moment like this when Ben and Bev are in the field without them, but Richie’s a thief. He’ll take anything he can get.


End file.
